PEAR TREE ORCHARD TURKEY
It doesn't matter whether it's spring or fall, Merriam or Eastern or Rio Grande or
Osceola, turkeys are tough to hunt. Their eyes are so keen. If you can see them without binoculars, they can easily pick you out of the edge of the timber unless you act like a tree. Stand so still until you feel like you've grown leaves. Unless your clothes have been treated with non-UVA detergent, a turkey's vision can still pick you out of the timber... Yes, from that distance, their wary eyes are as good as your 'binocs' and closely match a raptor's vision in relation to picking up movement several hundred yards away, as across a 100 acre corn field or from their roost above that same field. Turkeys also are not color blind, hence the reference for the necessity to wash your huntin’ duds in special hunting laundry soap that is formulated to minimize the intense colors of fabrics and human odor.
"The retinas of turkeys have seven different types of photoreceptors including 1 rod and 6 dIfferent types of cones, 2 of which are actually ‘double cones.’ Human retinas have only 4 different types of photoreceptors consisting of 1 rod and 3 single cones. One of Tom’s single cone photoreceptors has a spectral sensitivity to wavelengths near 400nm which is in the UVA light range.”HartNS1
It’s believed the ability to see UVA light helps turkeys detect their own prey, foraging for food. Once spooked by a human, there's no outrunning them -- remember they are at the bottom of the food chain -- it's eat or get eaten, chow or be chow. Their whole existence depends on outrunning or taking flight or outwitting any predators. They are lightning fast and wary in order to live another day within the same environment as coyotes, wolves, bobcats, cougars and even badgers. It's no wonder that wild turkeys are not negligent in evasiveness to stay alive.
It doesn't matter whether it's spring or fall, Merriam or Eastern or Rio Grande or
Osceola, turkeys are tough to hunt. Their eyes are so keen. If you can see them without binoculars, they can easily pick you out of the edge of the timber unless you act like a tree. Stand so still until you feel like you've grown leaves. Unless your clothes have been treated with non-UVA detergent, a turkey's vision can still pick you out of the timber... Yes, from that distance, their wary eyes are as good as your 'binocs' and closely match a raptor's vision in relation to picking up movement several hundred yards away, as across a 100 acre corn field or from their roost above that same field. Turkeys also are not color blind, hence the reference for the necessity to wash your huntin’ duds in special hunting laundry soap that is formulated to minimize the intense colors of fabrics and human odor.
"The retinas of turkeys have seven different types of photoreceptors including 1 rod and 6 dIfferent types of cones, 2 of which are actually ‘double cones.’ Human retinas have only 4 different types of photoreceptors consisting of 1 rod and 3 single cones. One of Tom’s single cone photoreceptors has a spectral sensitivity to wavelengths near 400nm which is in the UVA light range.”HartNS1
It’s believed the ability to see UVA light helps turkeys detect their own prey, foraging for food. Once spooked by a human, there's no outrunning them -- remember they are at the bottom of the food chain -- it's eat or get eaten, chow or be chow. Their whole existence depends on outrunning or taking flight or outwitting any predators. They are lightning fast and wary in order to live another day within the same environment as coyotes, wolves, bobcats, cougars and even badgers. It's no wonder that wild turkeys are not negligent in evasiveness to stay alive.
It’s believed the ability to see UVA light helps turkeys detect their own prey, foraging for food. Once spooked by a human, there's no outrunning them -- remember they are at the bottom of the food chain -- it's eat or get eaten, chow or be chow. Their whole existence depends on outrunning or taking flight or outwitting any predators. They are lightning fast and wary in order to live another day within the same environment as coyotes, wolves, bobcats, cougars and even badgers. It's no wonder that wild turkeys are not negligent in evasiveness to stay alive.
The chase in autumn is most often the ol' head-'em-off-at-the-pass trick.
I spent all morning walking nice and slow and easy across the field, to th'other side of the hedgerow down the gravel road. Approaching the crest of a small slope, along a line of fruit trees, instead of laying low or sliding quietly through the trees I stumbled in the deep grass of the field. Instead of creeping over the edge of the rounded hill I pretty much just forgot I was turkey hunting and mistakenly bebopped right over the rise stumbling into a group of turkeys feeding quietly just below my line of sight.
My hat and shotgun were very clearly in their line of sight and the next instant so was the rest of my bumbling self, alerting the whole group, harem 'n all. I was completely taken off-guard -- a very large tom jumped into the air right in front of me -- its massive wings roared into action. Turkey wings in escape mode are like a helicopter flying into 
My hat and shotgun were very clearly in their line of sight and the next instant so was the rest of my bumbling self, alerting the whole group, harem 'n all. I was completely taken off-guard -- a very large tom jumped into the air right in front of me -- its massive wings roared into action. Turkey wings in escape mode are like a helicopter flying into your face! In my mom's words, it startled the pee-waddin' out of me -- I had no chance to aim, but in that millisecond I shot at the flurry of brown anyway. That was the desperado huntress in failure mode. I was so embarrassed at both the wasted desperate shot and my lack of preparedness and clumsiness that I fell to my knees with a mouthful of swearing that'd make a drunken sailor cringe. That gave me a damn good dose of turkey hunting education and the worst humble pie shoved in my mouth. I could just hear those birds laughing, "uh huh! take that, idiot!" In bird-speak or remembrance of my father acquiring some slang from his wartime years in Germany, so would have thrashed me with his scolding, "dummes Madchen!" He knew firsthand how easily his tomboy daughter became distracted outdoors, so I couldn't deny his paternal endearment being dubbed 'silly girl'.
He and I had gathered up tiny baby chipmunks from the underground den to save them from a neighbor dog's persistent digging. Hand weaning the babies, I kept them in a salvaged hamster cage till we turned them loose. I learned the old hard way that you can not tame wild rodents -- one half-grown chipmunk bit me sharply, adorably cute, but still drawing blood as I tried to handle it like a tame hamster. Not ten years old, eagerly learning about wild critters, I vividly recall my father's ribbing me those words, "dummes Madchen" being bitten that way. My tomboy ego took more pain than my finger did. Still, having raised baby chipmunks my dad and I saved from the jaws of a menacing dog is a real cool memory. Getting bit was a tiny price for being a little heroine for chipmunks, nor the last time. Always the little saviorette for chipmunks our lazy Siamese tried to catch or robin fledglings that fell out of their nests. Very worth it for a little red-haired country madchen.
In all my turkey hunting years, that was the second time I'd tried and failed to blast a flying turkey down from behind. I realized it's downright impossible, a waste of good shells too. Only in cartoons does a shotgun blast blow off that puff of a few feathers hit by tiny beads in the air. Nope it don’ work. I resolved to make up for my blunder.
Still shaking my head at my stardom moment in a comedy of infantile stupidity, I had to shake it off, be positive. I had begun that day to kill a turkey so I resolved to relocate the flock if it took me the entire rest of the day. I was determined and persistent.
I hoped I could walk to the backside of the field called “The PearTree Orchard” so-named for the pear and apple trees that lined the edge of the property.
I slowed my pace, resuming stealth mode in and out of the lush alfalfa field through the narrow strip of timber. Once I reached the top of the slope I could see through my binoculars across the green valley that stretched to the back fence line, with no flocks feeding in the open pasture. It was safe to walk.
Cris-crossing the pasture I walked passed numerous deer beds, the long grass flattened into big well-worn circles, from big, well, mature deer. I sat down in one of the beds, the alfalfa's sweet aroma fresh on my face, and sparsely mixed in were soft fox-tail fronds tossing lightly in the warm breeze. By then I felt nature's calm, I picked one and chewed on the fuzzy end, content to sit in the middle of the deer bed, in the middle of the field. And borne out of childlike curiosity, looked around from the circle of grass to see what a deer would see. Amused at my random thoughts, the next moment I rose to get on with my hunt, my father's words again a gentle whisper in my ear.
Steadily, I circled around the remainder of the corner of the valley. To hike the two hundred-some-odd yards up slope with boots, gear and gun was a cumbersome trek. Someone had cranked up the heat. Once I got to the upper slope I turned about-face and the valley lay below. Good. I quenched my parched throat with Gatorade in my pack. I removed my camo jacket. I stood exactly where I could see a flock approach with time to get my gun ready.
The next task was to set up and settle in for that flock to reappear. Trouble was there were no large trees to lean against close to the field, it was all scrub oaks and shrubs. I'd have to make-do, crawled inside a thicket of sumac, explored the underbrush, found a solid log to sit on as I cooled down in the shade. In the next few minutes I rearranged the brush and trimmed excess lowhung branches with my saw, creating a better view. Munching on my snack, I looked down the valley from my hidey hole -- it was doze time -- waited for turkeys, the Ithaca 20 gauge lay ready on my lap.
Silently watching cardinals and titmice flit from branch to spindly branch reminded me of years past. Lying in the freshly mowed grass under the big oak tree in my back yard, a tire swing on a rope hung over bare dirt from several seasons of four kids jumping on the ground. I'd lay under that tree, one of many in the half acre yard watching squirrels scurrying up and down the massive oak trunk and cardinals softly sung to say hello, I believed to me lying far below their nest. They nested among the robins but I loved the cardinal's soft call, especially in the morning. Was music to my ears.
I leaned against the closest maple tree, its trunk not as wide as my shoulders and dozed. Comfortable in the dry leaves warmed by the midday sun, I could see the
slope of the alfalfa field with plenty of distance to raise my gun at any approaching bird. So quietly hidden under the sumac, one moment I peered through the leaves to observe several deer milling about grazing on the alfalfa. My binoculars were handy to watch the deer; they did not have a clue I was in their woods, my scent drifted away. I 'glassed' around them alert for any sign of small brown feathered critters.
My behind was getting numb and legs began to cramp, I'd sat for over an hour. Two of the does lay down to chew their cud while I kept my glasses pinned on the 'binocs' glass; I shifted my weight as I scanned for brown birds. I gazed through the binocs searching into the edge of the timber far below where I sat. My eyes caught movement. Damn near looked like a tree stump from that distance, but it moved. That was a turkey! Then two more popped out of the timber. The whole flock was emerging from the far corner of the field over two hundred yards down the slope, not far from the deer grazing out in the alfalfa. They were coming into the field to feed -- and very likely head my way. My heart started to pound.
I slipped my facemask over my head, and hands shaking, stuffed my fingers into my gloves and grabbed my gun off the ground, laid it on my right knee. I focused the binocs again; I watched the whole flock feed as they mingled with the browsing deer. I realized the flock started to head up the slope. I gasped for air. They were coming my way! I knew if I did not spook them, they'd walk right in front of me. My heart raced. I reached out my hand fumbling for the 'cluck' call lying next to me, but couldn't find it on the ground -- to hell with it -- no time anyway. Those birds were waddling straight for my ambush. I squirmed to get a better grip of the gun; dug a solid foothold into the dirt.
I couldn't see the birds anymore -- they were just below the top rise. Damnit! Tense, I held my breath. In the quiet I heard hens. A soft, but distinct "purtt" and a second hen "purp". Hens were so close. My throat tightened and my heart hammered. This time it was their head that would pop into view, not mine. I couldn't sit still - my nerves were ready to snap. Another hen chirped just below the slope plateau. I strained my neck to see. I scoffed, 'Dummes madchen, ya can't see through the ground,’ irritated at my lack of wits.
Just as my patience vaporized, finally, two heads popped above the grass on-the-lookout and like an Army bird invasion in hot pursuit of tasty bugs, a dozen more came into view until the whole flock was coming across the field in sight. All, very intently feeding on morsels in the grass. They were so close-knit they bumped into each other, ambling noisily, rustling the grass, ruffling wing feathers and still totally unaware of me. A bunch of big brown pinballs, hens and jakes bounced off each other raucously hungry, steadily encroaching into my set up. They looked so dorky, I would have laughed out loud had I not been so anxiously waiting to shoot one. Even with more than two dozen astute eyes ready to be alerted on impulse, those gray wrinkled heads kept focused on plucking food out of the grass. I was like a lioness in her lair, nervously twitching, ready to pounce.
In seconds, the front bird was quickly within thirty yards from me. At last inside range, I aimed the 20 gauge at the big hen, clicked safety off. Suddenly in a burst of angry chatter and wings, a jake flew over all of the rest of the flock. The alpha jake landed directly in front of me not even thirty yards from my gun aimed at the front hen. She was outgunned -- the jake’s Rambo hopscotch nearly squashed her, putting him in the lead. I swung the shotgun, fighting the barrel through the leafy branches to refocus the bead on its head. There was no way. Behind so much brush, the sumac was too thick to point my gun at the birds height. By then, the jake was only thirty feet from me~ a man could have spit on him. But I could not get good aim on its head through all the brush. Desperate, I jumped up exasperated and aimed over the sumac branches at the busy jake's head. There. Gotcha! I squeezed the trigger.
The boom echoed across the whole valley and in my ears. Over a dozen birds in a mass of brown wings scattered, flapped and fled instantly. I was shocked in disbelief that I let out a helluva holler! A warwhoop! I did it! So surprised at my own actions I laughed out loud shouting another "yeaaaah!" with a victory fist in the air! The big jake lay flopping on the ground. Every other critter hauled-ass. I'd never been so aggressive before, stand up to shoot, oh wow, it gave me such a rush! I felt great.
I almost tripped when I smashed through the bushes that a second ago had hindered my shot. The bird was a big jake with a tiny beard no longer than my forefinger, but if it’s brown it’s down, as they say. It stopped flopping as I knelt down to tag it. I heaved a huge sigh of relief, gathered my gear and my bird, triumphantly strode for the truck. I had a long haul and a long drive ahead. That was the only turkey I killed in that field.
I believe flocks primarily stay on the neighbor's side of the back timber that I hid in. Maybe in other hunts they'd spotted me while roosting and escaped to the other side on the neighbor's property. No matter. I killed that bird and said "thank you Lord". That year Thanksgiving dinner was wild turkey and it was a blessing.
I spent all morning walking nice and slow and easy across the field, to th'other side of the hedgerow down the gravel road. Approaching the crest of a small slope, along a line of fruit trees, instead of laying low or sliding quietly through the trees I stumbled in the deep grass of the field. Instead of creeping over the edge of the rounded hill I pretty much just forgot I was turkey hunting and mistakenly bebopped right over the rise stumbling into a group of turkeys feeding quietly just below my line of sight.
My hat and shotgun were very clearly in their line of sight and the next instant so was the rest of my bumbling self, alerting the whole group, harem 'n all. I was completely taken off-guard -- a very large tom jumped into the air right in front of me -- its massive wings roared into action. Turkey wings in escape mode are like a helicopter flying into
My hat and shotgun were very clearly in their line of sight and the next instant so was the rest of my bumbling self, alerting the whole group, harem 'n all. I was completely taken off-guard -- a very large tom jumped into the air right in front of me -- its massive wings roared into action. Turkey wings in escape mode are like a helicopter flying into your face! In my mom's words, it startled the pee-waddin' out of me -- I had no chance to aim, but in that millisecond I shot at the flurry of brown anyway. That was the desperado huntress in failure mode. I was so embarrassed at both the wasted desperate shot and my lack of preparedness and clumsiness that I fell to my knees with a mouthful of swearing that'd make a drunken sailor cringe. That gave me a damn good dose of turkey hunting education and the worst humble pie shoved in my mouth. I could just hear those birds laughing, "uh huh! take that, idiot!" In bird-speak or remembrance of my father acquiring some slang from his wartime years in Germany, so would have thrashed me with his scolding, "dummes Madchen!" He knew firsthand how easily his tomboy daughter became distracted outdoors, so I couldn't deny his paternal endearment being dubbed 'silly girl'.
He and I had gathered up tiny baby chipmunks from the underground den to save them from a neighbor dog's persistent digging. Hand weaning the babies, I kept them in a salvaged hamster cage till we turned them loose. I learned the old hard way that you can not tame wild rodents -- one half-grown chipmunk bit me sharply, adorably cute, but still drawing blood as I tried to handle it like a tame hamster. Not ten years old, eagerly learning about wild critters, I vividly recall my father's ribbing me those words, "dummes Madchen" being bitten that way. My tomboy ego took more pain than my finger did. Still, having raised baby chipmunks my dad and I saved from the jaws of a menacing dog is a real cool memory. Getting bit was a tiny price for being a little heroine for chipmunks, nor the last time. Always the little saviorette for chipmunks our lazy Siamese tried to catch or robin fledglings that fell out of their nests. Very worth it for a little red-haired country madchen.
In all my turkey hunting years, that was the second time I'd tried and failed to blast a flying turkey down from behind. I realized it's downright impossible, a waste of good shells too. Only in cartoons does a shotgun blast blow off that puff of a few feathers hit by tiny beads in the air. Nope it don’ work. I resolved to make up for my blunder.
Still shaking my head at my stardom moment in a comedy of infantile stupidity, I had to shake it off, be positive. I had begun that day to kill a turkey so I resolved to relocate the flock if it took me the entire rest of the day. I was determined and persistent.
I hoped I could walk to the backside of the field called “The PearTree Orchard” so-named for the pear and apple trees that lined the edge of the property.
|
I slowed my pace, resuming stealth mode in and out of the lush alfalfa field through the narrow strip of timber. Once I reached the top of the slope I could see through my binoculars across the green valley that stretched to the back fence line, with no flocks feeding in the open pasture. It was safe to walk.
Cris-crossing the pasture I walked passed numerous deer beds, the long grass flattened into big well-worn circles, from big, well, mature deer. I sat down in one of the beds, the alfalfa's sweet aroma fresh on my face, and sparsely mixed in were soft fox-tail fronds tossing lightly in the warm breeze. By then I felt nature's calm, I picked one and chewed on the fuzzy end, content to sit in the middle of the deer bed, in the middle of the field. And borne out of childlike curiosity, looked around from the circle of grass to see what a deer would see. Amused at my random thoughts, the next moment I rose to get on with my hunt, my father's words again a gentle whisper in my ear.
Steadily, I circled around the remainder of the corner of the valley. To hike the two hundred-some-odd yards up slope with boots, gear and gun was a cumbersome trek. Someone had cranked up the heat. Once I got to the upper slope I turned about-face and the valley lay below. Good. I quenched my parched throat with Gatorade in my pack. I removed my camo jacket. I stood exactly where I could see a flock approach with time to get my gun ready.
The next task was to set up and settle in for that flock to reappear. Trouble was there were no large trees to lean against close to the field, it was all scrub oaks and shrubs. I'd have to make-do, crawled inside a thicket of sumac, explored the underbrush, found a solid log to sit on as I cooled down in the shade. In the next few minutes I rearranged the brush and trimmed excess lowhung branches with my saw, creating a better view. Munching on my snack, I looked down the valley from my hidey hole -- it was doze time -- waited for turkeys, the Ithaca 20 gauge lay ready on my lap.
Silently watching cardinals and titmice flit from branch to spindly branch reminded me of years past. Lying in the freshly mowed grass under the big oak tree in my back yard, a tire swing on a rope hung over bare dirt from several seasons of four kids jumping on the ground. I'd lay under that tree, one of many in the half acre yard watching squirrels scurrying up and down the massive oak trunk and cardinals softly sung to say hello, I believed to me lying far below their nest. They nested among the robins but I loved the cardinal's soft call, especially in the morning. Was music to my ears.
I leaned against the closest maple tree, its trunk not as wide as my shoulders and dozed. Comfortable in the dry leaves warmed by the midday sun, I could see the
slope of the alfalfa field with plenty of distance to raise my gun at any approaching bird. So quietly hidden under the sumac, one moment I peered through the leaves to observe several deer milling about grazing on the alfalfa. My binoculars were handy to watch the deer; they did not have a clue I was in their woods, my scent drifted away. I 'glassed' around them alert for any sign of small brown feathered critters.
My behind was getting numb and legs began to cramp, I'd sat for over an hour. Two of the does lay down to chew their cud while I kept my glasses pinned on the 'binocs' glass; I shifted my weight as I scanned for brown birds. I gazed through the binocs searching into the edge of the timber far below where I sat. My eyes caught movement. Damn near looked like a tree stump from that distance, but it moved. That was a turkey! Then two more popped out of the timber. The whole flock was emerging from the far corner of the field over two hundred yards down the slope, not far from the deer grazing out in the alfalfa. They were coming into the field to feed -- and very likely head my way. My heart started to pound.
I slipped my facemask over my head, and hands shaking, stuffed my fingers into my gloves and grabbed my gun off the ground, laid it on my right knee. I focused the binocs again; I watched the whole flock feed as they mingled with the browsing deer. I realized the flock started to head up the slope. I gasped for air. They were coming my way! I knew if I did not spook them, they'd walk right in front of me. My heart raced. I reached out my hand fumbling for the 'cluck' call lying next to me, but couldn't find it on the ground -- to hell with it -- no time anyway. Those birds were waddling straight for my ambush. I squirmed to get a better grip of the gun; dug a solid foothold into the dirt.
I couldn't see the birds anymore -- they were just below the top rise. Damnit! Tense, I held my breath. In the quiet I heard hens. A soft, but distinct "purtt" and a second hen "purp". Hens were so close. My throat tightened and my heart hammered. This time it was their head that would pop into view, not mine. I couldn't sit still - my nerves were ready to snap. Another hen chirped just below the slope plateau. I strained my neck to see. I scoffed, 'Dummes madchen, ya can't see through the ground,’ irritated at my lack of wits.
Just as my patience vaporized, finally, two heads popped above the grass on-the-lookout and like an Army bird invasion in hot pursuit of tasty bugs, a dozen more came into view until the whole flock was coming across the field in sight. All, very intently feeding on morsels in the grass. They were so close-knit they bumped into each other, ambling noisily, rustling the grass, ruffling wing feathers and still totally unaware of me. A bunch of big brown pinballs, hens and jakes bounced off each other raucously hungry, steadily encroaching into my set up. They looked so dorky, I would have laughed out loud had I not been so anxiously waiting to shoot one. Even with more than two dozen astute eyes ready to be alerted on impulse, those gray wrinkled heads kept focused on plucking food out of the grass. I was like a lioness in her lair, nervously twitching, ready to pounce.
In seconds, the front bird was quickly within thirty yards from me. At last inside range, I aimed the 20 gauge at the big hen, clicked safety off. Suddenly in a burst of angry chatter and wings, a jake flew over all of the rest of the flock. The alpha jake landed directly in front of me not even thirty yards from my gun aimed at the front hen. She was outgunned -- the jake’s Rambo hopscotch nearly squashed her, putting him in the lead. I swung the shotgun, fighting the barrel through the leafy branches to refocus the bead on its head. There was no way. Behind so much brush, the sumac was too thick to point my gun at the birds height. By then, the jake was only thirty feet from me~ a man could have spit on him. But I could not get good aim on its head through all the brush. Desperate, I jumped up exasperated and aimed over the sumac branches at the busy jake's head. There. Gotcha! I squeezed the trigger.
The boom echoed across the whole valley and in my ears. Over a dozen birds in a mass of brown wings scattered, flapped and fled instantly. I was shocked in disbelief that I let out a helluva holler! A warwhoop! I did it! So surprised at my own actions I laughed out loud shouting another "yeaaaah!" with a victory fist in the air! The big jake lay flopping on the ground. Every other critter hauled-ass. I'd never been so aggressive before, stand up to shoot, oh wow, it gave me such a rush! I felt great.
I almost tripped when I smashed through the bushes that a second ago had hindered my shot. The bird was a big jake with a tiny beard no longer than my forefinger, but if it’s brown it’s down, as they say. It stopped flopping as I knelt down to tag it. I heaved a huge sigh of relief, gathered my gear and my bird, triumphantly strode for the truck. I had a long haul and a long drive ahead. That was the only turkey I killed in that field.
I believe flocks primarily stay on the neighbor's side of the back timber that I hid in. Maybe in other hunts they'd spotted me while roosting and escaped to the other side on the neighbor's property. No matter. I killed that bird and said "thank you Lord". That year Thanksgiving dinner was wild turkey and it was a blessing.